


This Will Destroy You

by breathe_out



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Game: Call of Duty, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathe_out/pseuds/breathe_out
Summary: Soap confronts Shepherd and pays the price.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	This Will Destroy You

**Author's Note:**

> Do people still read COD stories?

Captain MacTavish lay sprawled in the dirt. He blinks sand out of his eyes as consciousness slowly returns to him. His muscles spasm in pain as he sputters and coughs. The bitter taste of blood floods his tongue. His breathing is ragged and comes out in short, agonizing gasps. John gazes down at his body and moans.. A combat knife is submerged deep within his chest cavity. 

An inkling of awareness parts the fog clouding his memories. The front of his skull pounds. A rivulet of blood trickles down his temple from when Shepherd had knocked him into the vehicle. The man himself is standing confidently above him, readying his revolver with a steady precision that spoke of decades of practiced focus. Shepherd levels the barrel directly at John. 

His gruff voice is level with conviction as he prepares to squeeze the trigger. “I know you understand.”

The chamber clicks into place and fires. Before John can even properly grasp the situation, Shepherd is tackled to the side. Hot air ghosts against the side of his head as the bullet hits the sand. The sudden ringing in his ears brings everything into sharper clarity. Price has miraculously saved his life, again. The captain is grappling with Shepherd on the ground in a desperate battle for control. The gun glints in the sun nearby, just out of his reach.

Without thinking, John rolls onto his left side and forces himself to move forward. He grunts in pain as he drags himself across the dirt. The wound in his chest sears his flesh like a fiery brand, but his focus is on the weapon. He finally reaches out to grasp it in his blood stained fingers. 

However, Shepherd has somehow managed to overpower Price. Just as John’s fingertips grace the warm barrel of the gun, it is unceremoniously kicked out of reach by a boot. John’s hope deflates as he turns over to face Shepherd. The man looks absolutely livid. The underside of his boot comes down mercilessly. Blackness consumes his vision and he temporarily passes out from the pain. 

The sheer amount of injury he has sustained, combined with the sudden blow to his skull, places John in a state of severe disorientation. His consciousness fades in and out as he struggles against the overwhelming dizziness threatening to make him faint. Only mere yards away, Price is engaged in a losing fight with Shepherd. The older man is quickly gaining the upper hand as they throw punches at each other. John has never felt so helpless in his entire life. Panic surfaces from the depths of his confusion, along with a newfound sense of rage. 

He allows that anger to fuel his next act of revenge. John summons every ounce of strength he possesses as he raises his arm and grips the knife sticking out of his own body. He braces himself for what he is about to do, possibly at the risk of his own life, to kill Shepherd. John tightens his hold as he pulls the blade from his chest. It is buried deeper than he thought, and the sheer effort makes his entire body tremble. A hazy shroud of darkness presses in from the corners of his eyes. Ever so slowly, the knife inches out of the confines of his flesh and muscle. 

Price is laid out flat on the ground, unmoving. Shepherd has already straddled him to wail on the unconscious man’s face as he beats him to the edge of death. Desperate to save his friend amidst a tide of terrible agony, John grabs the knife’s handle with both hands. He is heedless of the jagged edge of the blade that continues to worsen his wound. Blood gushes from the shallow opening and soaks through the layers of his fatigues. Despite the heat from the sun, he abruptly feels cold. The entire earth seems to be shifting and spinning in a dizzying, nauseous circle. 

But the only thing that matters in this moment is ending a traitor’s life. 

And when the blade finally jerks free from his chest, John wastes no time in aiming for his intended target. It is something that he has done a thousand times before, in far less dire situations. A forgotten memory comes to him unbidden: a happier time, when he and the rest of the task force had thrown knives like darts in a pleasant, drunken haze. The competition had always been playful; the goal nonexistent.

So, with the fine tuned motions of an adept combatant, John releases the knife. It flips through the air in slow motion as his heartbeat pounds in his eardrums. Shepherd stops and looks directly at John. The dumbfounded terror in the man’s lax face sends a thrill of anticipation through him. The blade lands true as it embeds itself in Shepherd’s eye socket. The dead general collapses backward in a heap. 

The adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream immediately begins to fade, sapping away his strength. His arms fall limply to his sides. John’s vision shifts as his severe injuries finally take their toll. Distantly, he wonders how much blood he has lost since he removed the knife. His entire torso feels like it has been doused in warm, sticky water. He imagines that does not bode well, but his own survival is far from his mind. Price still lays motionless in the sand. 

If he is dead, John cannot tell. 

His mind is too far gone to care. Instead, relief descends over him. The hard fighting is finally over. His eyelids are heavier than ever before, and he longs to rest them for a moment. His limbs feel like lead weights as exhaustion floods his weary bones. His vision swims and dims. 

Then, Price convulses and coughs. John can only stare as his friend slowly lifts himself up and struggles to stand. His entire face is a bloody, bruised mess. It will be an array of ugly violets by tomorrow. Price manages to get to his feet.

“Soap,” Price utters his name as he trips and falls next to John. His voice is raw with newfound pain. “Soap!” 

John’s sense of time vanishes. The singular thread of awareness he’s been able to hold onto slips away as he passes into oblivion. He does not dream or think – he drifts in a blissful darkness that numbs his body. 

A loud, rumbling noise that seems to shake the very earth brings him back to reality. John groans as so many painful sensations return to him all at once. There’s something heavy restricting his breathing, too. 

“It’ll hold for now. Come on, get up!” Price grunts. 

The next few seconds are a blur of pain as Price forces him up. He wraps an arm around John’s waist to support him. John leans against him heavily. The ground is tilting and swaying like a boat rocking in the sea. Warm blood is coursing down his chest and soaking through Price’s makeshift bandages. Wind is whipping at their clothes from the chopper’s whirring blades. 

“I thought I told you this was a one-way trip!” Price yells. 

John feels a profound sense of relief when Nikolai’s familiar Russian accent answers back. “Looks like it still is…they’ll be looking for us you know.” 

A wave of dizziness comes over John and causes him to stumble. Nikolai rushes forward to help him. It takes both men’s assistance to keep him upright. 

“Nikolai, we gotta get Soap outta here.” Price loses his usual hard edge as concern creeps into his voice. John’s feet are basically dragging in the dirt now. 

“Da – I know a place.”


End file.
